He was sitting at the very top of the fir tree in our garden, facing West. The sky was dramatically dark, and against the lowering clouds and his own black feathers, his beak was set ablaze by the setting sun. And he was singing. Gorgeous, bubbling, liquid gold notes dripping and splashing from his beak, cascading into the garden. Lazy, sweeping bass notes, trills and rolls and achingly sweet crescendos.
We were half way through our dinner, but I had to open the patio doors (despite the cold) and just sit and listen to him, watching his burning beak open wide to pour out light against the coming dark.
Now I know what so inspired Kate Bush.